


His Reign Will End

by the-ghost-and-his-soprano (thejadedidealist)



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: ALW, Angst, Canon Divergence, Complete, Death, Gen, also my first major character death so let's see how that goes, not sorry, this is going to hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 05:44:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13001100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejadedidealist/pseuds/the-ghost-and-his-soprano
Summary: "There was a moment of perfect stillness as he took in the sight of Christine before him, fingers still clawed from tearing back his hood, face contorted in a look of utter betrayal. And then the stillness was broken."The doors are barred. Armed men are stationed at every exit. This time, they are not so reluctant to shoot.A look into how things might have ended if Erik wasn't so quick to escape at the end of "Point of No Return".Based on this image by stasya-k on tumblr.(https://78.media.tumblr.com/91fda155b6977e8609274d3b109dbb7d/tumblr_o8ntaw1MDD1vsjz1bo1_500.jpg)





	His Reign Will End

            It was wrong. All wrong. His voice, the choreography, nothing was the way they had practiced it. Did no one else notice? Christine sent a pleading look up to Raoul’s box, praying he would sense that something—everything—was going wrong. She saw no movement.

            The tempo marched on, and Christine let herself be carried by the choreography, glad she had muscle memory to rely on when everything else in her seemed frozen with fear. That was _him_ , dancing next to her, caressing her body, singing into her ear. She had known even before feeling the firmness of the mask under his hood. She was right there next to him, in his grasp, fully vulnerable. It was _him!_ And no one else seemed to realize it.

            Christine glanced down into the pit, searching for the policeman Raoul had promised her would be there. She spotted him, there, behind the cellist. Would he be quick enough to shoot if Erik tried to steal her away? If it came to that, if no one realized without her showing them what was happening right under their noses, would there be time to save her from him?

            Christine started to dance away, as she was supposed to. But Erik’s grip on her wrist did not break as it should have. It grew tighter. _God_ , she realized, _he knew_. He must have felt her hand on his mask. He knew that she knew. He had to. Christine’s mouth grew dry.

            There wasn’t much time. The song was ending and soon he would sweep her offstage, where he could steal her away in private. How long would it take them to realize she had disappeared? Would anyone even realize it had been him onstage? Surely Piangi would be throwing a fit, wherever he was. Unless he was dead. Oh God, he was dead, wasn’t he?

            Christine’s fear turned to desperation. What would happen if she just let this play out? What if he just wanted to see her again, and, satisfied, would leave her alone? Was that too much to hope for?

            Yes. Of course it was. But that didn’t stop her from hoping it anyways.

            Christine scanned the wings at every opportunity. Why didn’t anyone see what was happening? Another pleading look towards Raoul. Erik’s cold fingers on her chin dragged her attention back to him. Christine’s breath hitched. That was it, then, wasn’t it? He had confirmed all her fears with that one gesture. If she left this stage with him, she was his forever.

            The music wound down. They spiraled closer and closer, cat and mouse, never quite touching. Until the very last line, when they finally landed chest to chest, almost kissing. She could feel Erik shaking against her. She was shaking too. As discretely as possible, Christine snaked her arms up his chest and around his neck. She waited there as long as she could, knowing somewhere deep inside her that it would hurt her to do this to him, that she still cared about him in some twisted way.

            On the final sustained note, the farthest she could have put it off, she buried her fingers in Erik’s hood and yanked it back, bracing for his rage. And there he was. Her angel, her teacher. Her tormentor. Still as stone with shock on the stage before her, his leather mask gleaming like white marble in the lights. _Please save me,_ she prayed to Raoul, the policemen, God, anyone that might hear and be able to stop this man from stealing her away the moment he regained his senses. _Please, dear God, don’t let him win._

* * *

 

            Erik stood frozen on the stage of the _Opera Populaire_ , his hands still cupping the air where Christine had stood pressed against him a moment before. A moment before she had exposed him.

            He was shocked by how bright the stage lights were without the gauzy hood of Piangi’s costume over his face. The silence, too, was surprising. There had been no gasps from the audience, who still seemed to believe that this was all part of the plot. The orchestra still played, holding the fermata, waiting for Don Juan’s next note that now would never come. There was a moment of perfect stillness as he took in the sight of Christine before him, fingers still clawed from tearing back his hood, face contorted in a look of utter betrayal.

            And then the stillness was broken. An earsplitting _crack_ resounded through the theatre, and a chunk of the set piece over Erik’s shoulder exploded in a shower of plaster.

            Someone had fired a gun.

            Erik whirled, trying to find the source of the bullet, when another shot rang out. This one came from a different angle, and struck the stage by his feet. The shooter was in one of the boxes on the left side of the stage, and ducked out of view the moment Erik’s furious eyes landed on him. A police whistle sounded from somewhere in the wings, and three more shots were fired, striking various set pieces onstage but somehow managing to avoid his body. Panic bubbled up in Erik as he came to terms with the situation. He was surrounded.

            It was then that the audience seemed to realize the nature of the situation, and the theatre was filled with the sound of screams as the patrons scrambled toward the exits, fearing another incident like the chandelier crash the previous year. They did not know that the phantom was not the mastermind tonight, but for the first time, the victim.

            Erik crouched instinctively as another shot sounded over the screaming audience, and landed with a _thunk_ in one of the sandbags in the wings behind him, sending a backdrop careening into the stage. Another shot, and this time Erik heard Christine scream. He whirled to see her crouched by the table, gripping her elbow where a trickle of blood leaked out of the shallow graze there.

            Erik’s chest seized. They hadn’t even waited for her to get to safety before opening fire. The reckless _fools._

            “Stop!” He roared, surprised at how loudly his voice carried over the ruckus in the audience. This was not what he’d wanted. He wasn’t even sure what he _had_ wanted, beyond seeing Christine again, getting to sing on stage with her. To steal her away? To say goodbye and be done with her? To have a moment of recognition for his work? The only thing he knew for sure was that men with guns had certainly not been a factor.

            And though the men must have heard him, they paid no attention, firing a few more rounds that miraculously missed him. He charged toward the front of the stage, glimpsing the musicians cowering in the pit as he scanned the auditorium for a way out.  

            “You idiots! Stop firing!” He shouted. But they paid no mind, another shot striking the floor near Christine, causing her to yelp in fear.

            Without guiding his feet, Erik found himself rushing towards her. His decision had been made for him. He had to get them out of there, both of them, before the shooters’ aim got any steadier.

            “Get away from her!” A voice shouted. Erik slowed his charge, looking up from the sobbing soprano. Raoul de Chagny stood in his box across the stage, pointing a gun at Erik’s chest. But Erik was already too close to Christine for Raoul to get a clear shot from that distance. He kept walking.

            “I said get away!” There was a tremble in the Vicomte’s voice, and another shot rang out. Pain exploded in Erik’s thigh. He looked up to see the last trace of smoke leave the barrel of the Vicomte’s gun. So. He had underestimated the boy’s shot. He glanced at Christine, who was huddled barely three feet away. He’d underestimated the boy’s nerve as well.

            Blood streamed steadily from the wound, red and fast. Erik knew enough about blood to know that neither of those things were good. His priority abruptly changed from ‘escape’ to ‘survive’. As he tallied the gunmen slowly creeping into view, the likelihood of either possibility seemed to plummet.

            Another shot came from somewhere behind him. It missed him, but landed inches from the table Christine hid behind, causing her to scream and launch into another round of sobs. Erik looked wildly over his shoulder, but the lights shining onto the stage made it impossible for him to pinpoint the shooter. There would have been no point, anyway. Erik didn’t have a weapon to fire back.

            “You’re going to hit her!” Erik’s voice was hysterical as he screamed into the darkness beyond the footlights. The panic in his chest only rose as he flipped through his options. Forward and backward and left and right, police were everywhere, and still more emerged from the wings. _Down, down, go down_ a voice urged him, and he remembered the trap door in the center of the stage.

            Erik lurched toward Christine, ready to sweep her away with him to safety. He didn’t get far before a rustling sound echoed across the stage as every pistol in the room cocked. Erik stopped walking and looked up. The gunmen had closed in. The curtain was lowering menacingly across the front of the stage. He was trapped. He spun in a slow circle, trying to scan for escape routes, make sure Christine was out of harm’s way, and keep his eye on the line of policemen all at once. He swallowed hard, trying and failing to quell the panic that was trying so hard to rear its head.

            At last, the theatre fell quiet as the final dozen patrons made their escape. The gunmen stopped flowing in and took their places in formation around the stage, thirty gun barrels all pointed at him. Christine was sheltered under the table, her sobs now soft sniffles. Everything was still.

            Erik’s heart raced. He was feet away from the trapdoor. Two steps from safety. But how could he get there without getting shot? One twitch in the wrong direction, and he was done for. Erik squeezed his eyes shut, cursing himself for not coming here with a plan. He heard footsteps to his left, and before he could turn to see their source, there was another resounding _crack_.

            The bullet struck him in the hip, excruciating pain in its wake. The force took Erik to the ground. He roared, picking himself up and turning to face the shooter. Another shot. This one tore through his abdomen, in and out before he even felt the pain. A breath later, Erik fell to the stage, hard. When he was finally able to look up, he saw Raoul de Chagny standing a few steps in front of the line of policemen, gun leveled at Erik’s face. Erik watched in terror as the Vicomte pulled back the hammer for his third shot.

            “Raoul.”

            Christine’s voice drew both men’s attention, and together they turned their faces toward the sound. At some point, she had come out from under the table, and now stood before it, her shawl wrapped around her bleeding elbow. Her hand was outstretched toward the Vicomte in what seemed to Erik to be a plea for mercy. Raoul’s face was still contorted with rage. The young man was the most unkempt Erik had ever seen him; hair flopping in his face, shirt unbuttoned, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The hand that held the gun was shaking so wildly that Erik feared he might pull the trigger by mistake. But after another moment of eye contact with Christine, the young man dropped his weapon, rushing forward to gather her in his arms.

            Watching the two embrace rivaled the gunshots in terms of pain. Erik looked away, but his agony did not lessen. His wounds screamed with pain, and the pool of blood around him was expanding at an alarming speed. He touched his fingers to the wound in his gut. They came away bright red and sticky. He had known they would, but somehow seeing it made it that much more real.

            He was going to die.

            Erik saw movement in the periphery of his vision, and raised his gaze to see the line of policemen retreating into the wings. Christine and Raoul remained, no longer embracing but at arm’s length. They seemed to be arguing.

            “I will,” Christine promised. “Just let me be with him, until…” She must have felt Erik’s eyes on her, for she turned her head and met his gaze. Raoul looked at him too, far less sympathy in his eyes. Without a word, the young man turned and stalked off.

            Erik and Christine were alone on the stage for the second time in what couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. And yet this time, everything was different.

            Christine crossed to him in a rush, falling to her knees at his side. Without a moment’s hesitation, she gathered him into her lap. His bullet wounds burned like hellfire, but he couldn’t catch his breath long enough to give voice to the scream of pain that built up inside him.

            Settled in her lap, Erik clutched weakly at his stomach. It wasn’t going to help, at this point. He knew that. But some base part of his brain urged him to grab hold of the pain and pull it out of him, as if it was as simple as pulling weeds. Christine found his wandering hand and twined it with her own, pressing them both to her chest. Erik found himself wondering briefly at the costumers’ reactions when they saw the state of Christine’s dress, all rusty with his blood. The part of him that didn’t quite believe he was dying made a mental note to write to the managers about it, before he realized. There would be no more notes. No more compositions. No more songs, lessons with Christine, letters from Daroga. No more anything. That was a hard concept to wrap his mind around. Nothing. Even when Erik had seemingly had nothing before, he had at least had the awareness that he was without. But true nothingness… That was altogether unfamiliar.

            “I’m sorry, Erik.” Christine’s voice brought his attention back. Even now, there was something thrilling about the sound of his name on her lips. Erik pushed it aside and shook his head.

            “Not your fault,” he gasped, hoping she would understand that he meant it. Erik had been hurtling toward his end for quite some time now. It would have found him one way or another.

            “I never wanted you to die,” she sobbed, clutching his hand tighter to her chest.

            Erik did not have the energy or the words to respond, so he stayed silent, focusing on the feeling of her arms around him as his mind grew hazier. He became dimly aware of a coolness on his face, and a familiar panic rose up in him when he realized its source. His free hand flew to his face, which, as feared, had been freed of the mask.

            Christine shushed him and guided his hand back to his side.

            “You should die as yourself,” she explained, “not as whoever this was modeled to be.”

            Her voice was thick, but with sadness, not disgust. Only the slightest grimace betrayed her revulsion at the sight of him. A tightness developed in Erik’s chest, unrelated to his wounds. He felt hot tears trail over his cheeks.

            “Will you stay?” He whispered, fighting to keep his eyes open.

            “Yes,” she replied. “Until the end.”

            Erik sighed in relief. He hadn’t realized how terrified he was of dying alone until the prospect was at hand.

            Slowly, Erik’s pain began to fade, and with it, his consciousness. He was so tired. He felt his body go limp in Christine’s arms, and heard her little gasp when she thought it was over. But he kept on breathing, not quite succumbing to sleep. At some point, Christine began to sing. Not anything he’d taught her, but something old and simple. He recognized it vaguely as a Swedish folk tune, but he didn’t know the words or what they meant. It didn’t really seem to matter, anyway.

            “Chris…tine…” he breathed.

            “Yes, Erik?”

            “Thank…you.”

            Christine sniffled, putting on a wan smile. “Of course, Erik. Of course.”

            Erik was sure she didn’t know what he was thanking her for. He didn’t even know what he was thanking her for. But it felt wrong not to say something to acknowledge everything she’d done for him. Christine had returned his humanity. Not until this moment had he realized it. But it was because of her that he could accept his death. She’d made him whole again, and it seemed, just in time.

            Wrapped in her arms and in her song, Erik gave in to the exhaustion that hounded him. It was his vision that went first. As Christine fought back the tears in her eyes, Erik’s own fluttered closed. The world went dark. Erik had always liked it better that way. His hearing was next. After a while, Christine’s song faded slowly into silence. And though Erik’s heart mourned the loss of music, which had long been his only friend, he found peace in the quiet. Nothing existed but the feeling of his head on Christine’s lap, one of her hands clasped in his as the other ran through his sparse hair.

            Erik felt her lean over him, felt the whisper of air against his face as she spoke into his ear, but could no longer hear what she said. That should have made him angry, not to know her final words to him. But something in him assured him that he did know them. They were words of farewell, words of gratitude. Words of regret. It did not matter so much which words, anymore.

            At the very end, just before the sense of touch left him, too, Erik felt something else. Something soft and smooth touched down on his forehead and lingered there a moment, before lifting away.

            A kiss, Erik realized. Christine had kissed him.

            Something deep inside him sighed, so deep it might have been his very soul, whispering thanks to the heavens for this final gift. And with that exhalation, the sorrow and pain and the countless other evils that had haunted Erik’s life—all of them—dissolved into nothingness. So too, did his last fragile hold on the world, and just like that, Erik was gone.


End file.
